


It is Better to Marry Than to Burn

by beltainefaerie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kisses, Love, Other, honesty is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: When people said they were burning with passion, they didn't usually mean it quite this literally. Luckily there's many more ways to love one another.





	It is Better to Marry Than to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely separate from my other Good Omens fics and started with a terrible passing thought:  
> Remember how Crowley is on holy ground and it burns his feet?  
> Aziraphale is holy. Like, honestly still-an-angel, body-issued-from-Heaven, (however earthly it seems now), Holy.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to any of my ace friends who have ever put themselves through the motions out of love. 
> 
> The title is a play on the biblical passage in Corinthians 7, which has some odd things to say about sex and marriage, but is basically saying that the world is going to end so you shouldn't waste your time on things like getting married, but if you can't control yourself, you should get married not just burn with lust for one another. I couldn't stop thinking of the line, though, in relation to 'what if their lust actually burned?', and it kept making me giggle, because I'm terrible like that.
> 
> Thanks to hoomhumshobbit, meansgirl, and janto321 for looking this over. Any remaining mistakes are my own.  
> *

Aziraphale brushed the hair back from Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley stifled the urge to pull away. Over the millennia there had been too many touches to count. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, that particular tingling buzz sometimes lingering long after the angel had gone. Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder, fingers lightly touching his throat, a brush of their fingertips when they passed a book or a bottle. Anytime their naked skin touched. He’d almost missed it in the eras where they couldn’t be seen in polite society without gloves.

It felt stronger today, more difficult to ignore, or at least not to give it away, as the angel’s hot palm traced down Crowley’s face, ending by gently cradling his cheek. Aziraphale held his hand there for a heartbeat longer than normal before he blushed and looked away, pulling back his hand. 

It didn’t exactly hurt. Not even quite like pins and needles after numbness, though that was nearly it. More like the acrid fizz of soda on your tongue. Not bad, really. Humans enjoyed drinking that all the time. 

He had never seen anything in Aziraphale’s eyes to indicate that he felt his touch the same way. 

*

The world didn’t end and Crowley found himself in a swanky hotel room with a lap full of angel. They were on their own side now and he wondered if it would feel different. 

Aziraphale glanced down coyly, his pale cheeks coloring a lovely shade of rose that reminded Crowley of the first blush of sunset when they were still in the Garden. 

Only an angel could make him think such poetic nonsense. _His_ angel, anyway.

Aziraphale reached out, drawing Crowley closer and twining his arms around his neck as if _he_ were the serpent. 

Crowley went willingly, allowing himself to be pulled forward into the kiss. Their lips met, sensations both familiar and new. Crowley was curious and terrified and desperately in love. He deepened the kiss, testing, tasting.

It burned like liquid fire, but filled some hollow space in his chest. Part of him wanted to cry out, and yet, his angel was here, wanting, willing, loving him. How could he let go of that? 

\----

Crowley always felt cold. Well, that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t shiver or seem as though _he_ were chilled, it was just, well... when Aziraphale touched him it was like putting your finger on an ice cube just a little too long, a biting cold that almost burned. Aziraphale had never seen any sign that the demon felt anything like it. 

And it was undeniable how much he wanted to touch and be touched by Crowley. To let this beautiful being God had once created know how perfectly and completely he was loved. It wasn’t too much to ask. He steeled himself and drew him into a kiss.

It was like a storm.

Like a blizzard, in fact.

But he didn’t want to let go.

Eventually, he let himself be led to bed. He knew he’d made the most startled whimper when Crowley picked him up, but it simply couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t quite surprise, dismay, or discomfort, though all three played a part when Crowley’s hand slipped beneath his, now hopelessly rumpled, shirt and waistcoat as he lifted him off his lap and carried him to the large bed which dominated the next room.

Aziraphale found himself unceremoniously dropped into the pile of bolsters and throw pillows covering the silk duvet, and Crowley, well...crawled on top of him. 

Crowley sat astride him and began slowly, so very slowly, unbuttoning his waistcoat. He folded it back and rubbed his hands over the shirtfront. Aziraphale sighed and arched up into the touch. Through the clothing, Crowley’s touch was as sweet as it was enticing. 

Aziraphale felt a fluttering thrum. His chest felt alive, as if butterflies were alighting around his stomach and even up into his chest while warmth pooled lower. He wanted to reciprocate in some way, but his hands fluttered uselessly at his sides, unsure what to touch first, how to do... all this. He was overwhelmed. The excitement he’d felt when he’d held a previously unknown copy of a scroll he thought he’d lost forever in Alexandria, was absolutely nothing compared to this. It was tempered by the same fear of loss. This had to go right. A torn scroll could be miracled back to wholeness. This was far more risky. Crowley’s heart was far more delicate than he’d ever let on and more precious than anything Aziraphale had ever held. He knew now more than he’d ever let himself feel, that the loss would be irreparable. 

Crowley started on the shirt buttons. Aziraphale’s breath hitched, his eyes went wide, and he tensed.

Crowley stilled. “Do I still go too fast for you, angel?”

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was meant to be serious or teasing, but it landed somewhere between. A bit flirty, but checking in. He could say yes. He could stop this, put his suit to rights and… then what? No, it wasn’t too fast. No really. It had been millennia after all. 

“I… I don’t think I can say it is too fast for me. I… I love you.” 

Crowley smiled and unfastened another button and another before bending to kiss the bare sliver of chest.

Aziraphale shivered. 

Crowley kissed again, lingering, his tongue darting out, as if to taste Aziraphale’s skin, making him shiver again and the angel let out a startled, “oh,” which was almost an “ow!” 

Crowley pulled back. He glanced down at his angel and gasped. There was a pink, nearly red lip print on his chest. His eyes widened. “What have I done to you?” Crowley clambered off, his hand going to his mouth in what would have been a rather camp display of shock had it not been utterly genuine. 

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale protested, pulling his shirt primly over the mark. “Come back, love. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I... I hurt you.”

Aziraphale trembled and didn’t say anything. He dropped his hand away and let Crowley look him over. 

The mark still stood out, slightly raised and livid against his love’s pale skin, though it was already fading.

Crowley’s hand reached out, hesitating just above the skin. “I thought it was just me, part of the Fall, you know. Holy things usually burn, angel. It was worth it, for you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, my dear. I thought _you_ needed this. A more physical… you know, temptations of the flesh and all. What demon would want to hang around a stuffy old virgin for eternity. I mean...”

“I would!” Crowley said too quickly. “I mean… you’re not… that isn’t what I--”

Aziraphale laughed, a sound that reverberated through the room with utter unfettered delight. “We’ve been rather foolish, haven’t we?” 

“Shall we try this again?”

“Honestly, it isn’t that bad. I… I’ve been known to eat ice cream when I miss you. To let the coldness linger on my tongue when I imagined what it might be like if the sensation were a kiss.”

“Hang on, I’m cold?”

Aziraphale chuckled again. “I’m not?”

“Oh, my angel, no. Hot. Almost... spicy?”

Aziraphale rolled over, burying his chuckles in the pillows. When he caught his breath he added, “Whatever are we going to do?”

“Well, for starters, we are going to leave our clothes on,” Crowley said, his smile turning almost dangerous again. He rolled Aziraphale gently onto his side and curled up behind him. He wrapped his arm around his waist and drew them tightly together. “No freezing, I hope?”

Aziraphale sighed contentedly, wriggled happily, and affirmed, “Not a bit. You? Feeling at all singed?” 

“Nah. It’s perfect.”

Although they technically didn’t need sleep, both had learned that a nap could be most restorative now and then. They settled in together.

*

“Angel,” Crowley whispered and repeated himself in an ever-so-slightly louder singsong. 

Aziraphale stirred beside him. 

“Hello there,” Crowley continued. “Care to join me for some dinner? I’ve heard the escargot here is particularly fine. And afterwards, I have a surprise.”

*

Following an exquisite meal and more than a little wine, Crowley leaned over, his lips a hair’s breadth away from the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “Shall we get out of here?”

Aziraphale took a final bite of tiramisu with a soft, satisfied moan, then managed, “What do you have in mind, my dear?” with only a slight tremor of trepidation.

He could hear Crowley’s smile in his voice as he cooed, “Do you trust me?”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. “God help me, I do.” 

Crowley led him out of the restaurant and much to Aziraphale’s astonishment, into an actual, horse-drawn hansom complete with liveried attendant. The seats were plush beneath them and once shut in the cab, he blinked, bewildered, looking about from Crowley’s face to the russet velvet curtains and carpeted floor. 

Crowley reached out and took his hand and only then did Aziraphale notice their attire had shifted, their now-gloved hands clasped and resting atop Crowley’s woolen-suited thigh.

They drew up to their stop and Aziraphale drew in breath in awe as Crowley tipped his top hat to their driver then offered Aziraphale his hand.

“It looks just the same,” Aziraphale whispered as he stepped down to the pavement below. 

As it turned out, Crowley had discovered that on this particular evening, a group of queer historical reenactors who styled themselves ‘The Old Bohemians’ had conspired to recreate a certain discreet gentleman’s club. 

“Having missed it entirely the first time ‘round, I most certainly intend to learn the gavotte,” Crowley said. “Will you show me how it’s done?” 

Aziraphale beamed and squeezed Crowley’s gloved hand. “I shall be most delighted!”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos feed my muse, so if you liked this, please let me know. Thanks for reading!


End file.
